a ruffled Mr. Poupée shouted at me as I walked into the office. “I’m sorry. I overslept.” Mr. Poupée waved his hand. “Don’t be foolish. You didn’t overstep anything.” I tapped my ear several times. “Overslept,” I shouted as he adjusted his hearing aid. Tuesday morning and the sun, filtered through the damp winter air, streamed into my room and landed on my cheek. I had slept through the early morning hours without a stir—finally—and had decided not to rush to the factory but to have a leisurely morning with an actual breakfast. I think the fact I finally admitted some of my budding feelings for John to my sister made me feel unburdened and I wanted to take advantage of the good feeling—at least for a few hours. Mr. Poupée touched my shoulder giving me a pang of guilt. “Well, don’t worry about it. The funeral upset all of us. And in case I haven’t mentioned it, I just wanted to say I appreciate all your help. I don’t know how I would have managed these last few days.
